


every action is an act of creation

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: The Other 51 [13]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Asexual Character, Asexual James Madison, Asexuality, Banter, Donald Trump 20never: a campaign, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Politics, President Hamilton, Sex-repulsed James Madison, Twitter, hatred of Donald Trump: the one thing that truly unites the nation, non-sexual touching discussion, the beginning of the infamous Hamilton vs Trump Twitter feud, the current state of American politics, which is a warning in itself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 13:58:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8755270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: In which we meet Thomas Thomas and his boyfriend, Alexander and James bond, Alexander gets into an argument with an orange pumpkin, and there is a new financial plan.or, a continuation of the reincarnation 'verse with president hamilton at the helm





	

**Author's Note:**

> I will admit freely: I have not the slightest clue as to how the law system works. When I tried to read up on it, I got about halfway through the first article before I felt like that time I tried to understand how the Electoral College worked. In other words, I'm just going to make the details up as I go along.

Thomas would have liked to say that he has always known that he used to be someone important, someone great, someone wielding immense power. The truth was, he didn't. He did not even believe in reincarnation—right up until he began receiving images of a person that was distinctly not him, but that were too strong, too _vivid_ , to be anything but memories of a time long past.

He found it ironic that he was reincarnated as a person of colour, someone for whom President Thomas Jefferson had held only the deepest of contempt. If a slave owner being reincarnated as a descendant of slaves, of the very people he once owned, wasn't the most ironic thing to ever happen, then Thomas did not know what was.

What could he possibly do? Claim that he was Thomas Jefferson, third president of the United States? Not many people believed in reincarnation, so even if he went out and declared something like that, not many would believe him. And those who did would then judge him based on his previous actions, and the legacy of Thomas Jefferson, slave owner, opponent to the debt plan that saved America (he may still be a little bitter that Hamilton was right, but he figured that he had every right to be. Hamilton had this infuriating way of always getting his way)

No, it was better to continue the way he did. Thomas Jefferson and Thomas Jenkins were not the same person. For God's sake, Jenkins was _openly gay_ and _had a boyfriend_ , something which Jefferson would have condemned as an unforgivable sin.

 _Well, fuck you sideways, President Jefferson,_ Thomas thought viciously.

* * *

The squeak of the door alerted him to the fact that John had come home.

They had met a few years ago, in college. Thomas had been studying pre-law and John had been an art student, and one of the most promising ones. They had exactly one class in common, English literature, during which they debated the influence of Wollstonecraft's works in modern society. John was of the opinion that even today, literature was still heavily influenced by her writing, while Thomas claimed that she was being given far too much credit. At one point, John stomped out of the class, red in the face. When class ended, Thomas was accosted by John, who got in his face about Thomas' opinions. Thomas, never one to back down from a fight, rose to John's level, giving as good as he got.

After almost thirty minutes of arguing—which officially constituted as the longest argument Thomas has ever had without losing his courage or being overwhelmed by people—the tension between them had become too much for Thomas. He shut John up in the middle of an argument by kissing him. John's words were muffled by Thomas' lips. When they broke apart, John grinned. “Why, Jenkins, if I had known that you were interested in me, I would have argued with you earlier. I don't kiss on the first date, though, so you'd have to take me out at least twice.”

“You're an asshole, you know that?” Thomas stated and did just that.

They became roommates in their sophomore year, then moved into an apartment together in senior year. Thomas later decided to pursue a career in law, which meant, for the most part, a lot of studying, while John was beginning to make a name for himself in the artistic community. Now, Thomas was a well-known lawyer—one of the best on the Eastern coast, as a matter of fact. He was highly sought-after in various types of cases. Nowadays, since he had such a wide pick, he only took the ones where he was convinced of the innocence of his client. He slept better that way. He had more than enough money, so there was no financial pressure to take a particular case based on the payment. Instead, he chose those where he felt that he was doing justice and was helping the world.

John had also lucked out in life. By sheer coincidence, a famous art collector visited his art exhibit a few years back. She had thought him an artistic acumen and proceeded to buy nearly half of his paintings. That got the attention of other acclaimed art collectors, and before John knew it, he had been elevated to the status of an international celebrity. Half of the world hailed him a genius, while the other half criticized his choice of techniques and objects. To that, John shrugged and said that people would always argue and that there was nothing he could do to satisfy everyone.

Thomas and John still shared an apartment, though they had moved on to bigger venues—ones that offered space for Thomas to be able to work in silence. There was also an art studio for John and a library for Thomas. They really could not be happier.

Thomas shook himself out of his thoughts as John came into the living room. He had been to the grocery store and came back laden with bags. He grunted as he dropped them off at the kitchen. Thomas followed him there.

“Hello,” John said, kissing him briefly. “How was your day?” he began unpacking the bags, stuffing the milk into the fridge.

“Fine,” Thomas huffed. “Just fine.”

John stilled at Thomas' tone. He turned around. “What happened?” John asked with concern, touching his face. He always knew whenever something was wrong with Thomas. He had helped Thomas countless times with his social anxiety, grounding him in reality when it all became _too much_. John was quite possibly the best thing that has ever happened to Thomas.

(By contrast, the memories were the worst thing that happened to him, which he found ironic.)

“Nothing much,” Thomas tried to casually brush the topic aside.

“What happened, Thomas?” John insisted, squeezing Thomas' hand in comfort.

Thomas winced. “I may or may not have had a Revelation,” he admitted.

John's body tensed up. “Are you a reincarnate?”

Thomas closed his eyes. He could not blame John for the caution. Most people did not date reincarnates, as they could leave you at a moment's notice if they met the one they loved in their past life. It was simply a defense mechanism for not getting one's heart broken. “Apparently,” he replied. “John, I swear, I didn't know until just now.”

“I believe you,” John said softly. “Who were you?”

“What does it matter?” Thomas replied desperately. “I promise that I am not going to leave you. Ever. You are the most important person in my life. I would be a fool to throw it all away.”

“Thank you,” John blushed, then sobered up. “Well, it's clearly eating at you, so I would say that it matters,” he stated.

Thomas huffed. He decided to switch tactics. “You don't have a high enough level to unlock my tragic backstory."

John merely grinned. “Very funny, Thomas,” he deadpanned. “But seriously, who were you? It can't be _that_ bad.”

“It is,” Thomas assured him.

John sighed. “I can't help you if I don't know the problem.”

Thomas looked away. “Fine. I was Thomas Jefferson.”

“Thomas Jefferson?” John asked incredulously. “As in Thomas Jefferson, third president of the United States? _That_ Thomas Jefferson?”

Thomas nodded. “The exact same.”

John mulled this over. “And this bothers you,” he said slowly, making sure that he understood.

“Yes.”

“Why?” John wanted to know.

“Because I was an asshole in my past life, Thomas said, “I was a slaver, a racist, a rapist, and a myriad of other things, _horrible_ things,” his voice cracked at the end. His body began shaking. Was he crying?

John wordlessly embraced him. “That was in another life, Thomas,” he soothed. “You have a new chance now. A chance to be better than how you were before.”

“Then why give me the memories in the first place?” Thomas asked softly. “They only cause me pain.”

“Because you can learn from them, Thomas, instead of making the same mistakes that he did.”

Thomas laughed hollowly. “I'm black. I somehow don't think that's going to be a problem, but thanks,” he buried his face in John's shoulder.

John dragged his fingers through Thomas' hair. “Think nothing of it, my love. Just relax.”

* * *

Later that week, Thomas was watching President Hampton's speech about the effects of bullying on social identities. Well, he wasn't so much watching as listening to it with one ear while checking social media, but still. Watching.

Hampton's critics said that he focused too much on small issues, to which Hampton replied that someone had to, because it was the small issues that, more often than not, were the cause of the bigger issues, and if they did not root out the problem, then they would always be reactive rather than proactive.

(That particular response had an implied 'screw you' to the senator who had criticized him, which was a little immature but also impressive on the president's part—saying so much while at the same time saying nothing. Thomas aspired to have that kind of a skill one day.)

“President Alexander Hampton,” Thomas muttered to himself, scrolling through his Facebook feed while absentmindedly listing what he knew about the man. “Immigrant, adopted by the surgeon Dr Westchester. Child wonder, senator at 25, upon which he somehow succeeded in passing an amendment to the Constitution that would allow non-natural-born citizens run for the presidency, and, in an astonishing twist, became the youngest American president at 37. Impressive resumé. Not that I don't have an impressive CV, but still.”

He chanced a look at the TV and froze.

Because that man right there—the President of the United States of _freaking_ America—was someone very familiar to Thomas. More specifically, to Thomas Jefferson.

He was staring at Jefferson's staunchest political nemesis, Alexander Hamilton.

Suddenly, social media didn't seem all that interesting after all.

* * *

“How long have you remembered?” James asked one day while they were cramming for their respective exams.

Well, James was studying, while Alexander was writing. Again. Was the man ever _not_ writing?

To be honest, James wondered how much Alexander could write in a day. In an era where the only writing utensils were a quill and ink, Alexander Hamilton was capable of writing up to forty thousand words a day. It terrified James to even consider how much more efficient Alexander Hampton was with a laptop.

“Always,” Alexander answered without delay. “I have never _not_ known who I was. You?”

“When I was sixteen and was hospitalized for pneumonia,” James began his story. “I was delirious, and they kept giving me painkillers, and that must have triggered something inside me because the next thing I knew, I had over eighty years' worth of memories in my head. I was fortunate to be bed-bound, because it took me quite some time not only to sort through the memories, but also to come to terms with my situation,” he paused.

“You know,” he began anew, “I never really believed in reincarnation. Yes, it _is_ technically a scientifically proven phenomena, but it is said to be so rare, so uncommon, that I never really thought it was real.”

“And yet here we are,” Alexander said, “Alexander Hamilton and James Madison—if not the best of friends, then at least each other's confidantes.”

James' lips quirked into a smile. “Best friends sounds good,” he confessed. “I don't have anyone else, Alexander, in case you haven't realized it. Everyone else is gone. Dead and buried, or hasn't returned yet. Probably never will during my lifetime, and even if someone does, they will, in all probability, never remember past me. I honestly only have you.”

Alexander grinned. “I love you too, Madison,” he moved to embrace James, but the shorter man raised his hands in a universal gesture that meant _stop_.

“I, uh, I don't like to be touched,” he explained, looking flustered when Alexander raised an eyebrow.

“At all?” Alexander frowned. “I've seen you initiate contact, and you have never recoiled,” he remembered.

James' posture slumped. “That's because back then, it wasn't acceptable not to allow yourself to be touched. You were an oddity, so I tolerated it.”

“What about now?” Alexander asked softly, scooting back on the bed to give James some space.

James considered the question. “Above the waist is okay, except on the chest,” he eventually said. “Hands are okay, and so is the head. Everything south of the waist is a clear _no._ I probably won't initiate any touch myself, but those areas are acceptable.”

Alexander nodded vigorously. “Okay,” he said. “I can work with that.” He tilted his head in that way that James knew meant that he had a question. “Out of sheer curiosity: have you ever had sex?”

Alexander did not think it possible for James to flush further, but he was proven wrong. James scratched his neck, looking down at the bed sheets. “Sex is… not really my thing,” he admitted. “I don't like it, don't like the concept of it, I'm disgusted and afraid of it, and just the thought of me having it makes me _nauseous_ ,” he rambled.

Alexander reached out as though to comfort him, but thought better of it. James saw his halted movement and wordlessly gave consent. Alexander placed his hand on James' shoulder. James stiffened but did not recoil from the touch, which Alexander counted as a victory.

“It's okay, Jemmy,” Alexander soothed. “It actually explains a lot of things about you,” he mused.

James let out a sound that was a mix between a laugh and a scoff. “I just _really don't like sex_.”

"And that's okay," Alexander said again. "There is nothing wrong with that, and don't you ever think otherwise."

* * *

 _Donald J. Trump_ @realDonaldTrump  
Our POTUS is an immigrant who doesn't care about American jobs and only wants to further his own interests. SAD!

 _Donald J. Trump_ @realDonaldTrump  
I will do a better job #MakeAmericaGreatAgain

* * *

“Okay, that's it,” Alexander growled, slamming his hands against his desk. “Trump is going _down_.”

James sighed. He briefly contemplated whether it was possible to confiscate a president's cellphone. In the hands of Alexander Hamilton, any piece of technology was a dangerous weapon, let alone one connected to the internet. At least that could be his defense when questioned why he took a hammer to a phone containing thousands of invaluable and highly-classified files. “Have you considered that maybe, _just maybe_ , he's saying this just to get a rise out of you?”

Alexander did not reply for a moment, which meant that he was actually thinking about James' question. He then shrugged dismissively. “I mean, he's wrong, _and_ he is throwing around unsubstantiated slander. I can't let _that_ stand.”

* * *

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
@realDonaldTrump Actually, I have brought hundreds of thousands of jobs BACK to America, as well as mitigated the national debt, which (1/6)

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
@realDonaldTrump you would have known, had you actually done any research instead of mindlessly typing out your opinions without any basis in facts. (2/6)

 _Peggy Scott_ @margarita32  
@AdotHam @realDonaldTrump Two powerful people with attitude issues having an ego battle over Twitter. How very mature of our leadership…

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
@realDonaldTrump Then again, I really don't know why I expected better of you. You are a roasted pumpkin with no grip on reality. (3/6)

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
@realDonaldTrump You are not fit to lead a company, as you have proven by losing billions of dollars within a year, and refusing (4/6)

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
@realDonaldTrump to submit your tax returns. You are manipulative and incompetent, and take advantage of other people's faith in you for (5/6)

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
@realDonaldTrump your own gain. Why should the people trust you with anything, much less trust you to lead an entire country? (6/6)

 _Alexander Hampton_ @AdotHam  
@realDonaldTrump One more thing: #AmericaIsAlreadyPrettyAwesome

* * *

Watching Alexander's reaction to being insulted by Donald Trump was mildly amusing. It was like a snake who got progressively more irked by that one mouse who just would not let it sleep. The snake would hiss, but the mouse wouldn't heed the warning. James knew all too well how that story ended.

Watching Alexander Hamilton tear into Donald Trump was probably the most amusing thing to happen to James Madison in a very long time—and yes that included the toaster incident. There was just something about watching one of the founders of this country and energizer bunny extraordinaire call a multi-millionaire and presidential candidate a 'roasted pumpkin with no grip on reality' or 'Fuckface von Clownstick'.

James was just thankful that he wasn't Alexander's Press Secretary. He pitied the unfortunate man who was, and who had to explain this whole mess to the press.

* * *

One of Alexander's primary hobbies was economics. He did no regularly read up on finances because he was forced to, or because it was relevant to his job, but because he genuinely enjoyed it. It was an oddity that he was proud of, and that was shared by Treasury Secretary Allison Drawwood. A quite tall woman at 5'8—and yes, Alexander was occasionally irked that literally _almost everyone_ towered over him, with the sole exception of James—Drawwood was a clever, fierce woman, and a role model for adolescent girls everywhere. She was quite vocal in the fight for gender equality. She genuinely believed in helping the poor and less fortunate, and lived moderately even though she came from old money that stretched, according to her grandfather's stories, all the way back to the Civil War. She was often found gossiping with Lafayette, or exchanging make-up tips, and was never afraid of speaking her mind.

Most importantly, however, Drawwood had a fascination with international economics.

Alexander first met her back when he was a young upstart of a lawyer, having recently graduated from Columbia. She was getting divorced from her husband of seven years, and sought sole custody of her son Lysander. Alexander was more than happy to help out, though he was offended at the sheer amount of money she was willing to pay him. He had always been indifferent to money (an ironic trait for the first Treasury Secretary of the United States), and refused more than one case simply based on the fact that his client was practically pushing money at him. It felt too much like bribery, and Alexander had not become a lawyer so that he could be bribed. He had become a lawyer, in both lifetimes, because he venerated the law, and believed that it had to be upheld.

When Drawwood saw that he was on the verge of refusing, she, in a flash of insight very rare in people, withdrew her bid and offered half of her original offer as payment, which Alexander readily accepted. Although Alexander still held most of humanity in contempt, he had to concede that Allison Drawwood was an exception.

As a result of this, they spent quite a few evenings pouring over facts, figures, arguments. They established arguments, examined the law, and tested the bounds of what was possible in this case. At some point, Alexander made an off-hand remark that he wished that economy was as transparent as the law, and Drawwood must have heard it because she snickered and said that economy was much easier to understand than the heaps of legal details and exceptions that surrounded his job. Alexander's curiosity could not allow him to leave the matter alone, after that, and they debated national and international economics into the early hours of morning. After that, it became a tradition that they would work on Drawwood's legal defense for a few hours, then relax by talking finances, debating the pros and cons of different theories, and which measures could prove to be the most helpful for their country's future.

Alexander won her case, of course—he never even doubted that. Drawwood moved back to her home state of California, but they kept in touch, sending each other postcards a few times a year and occasionally visiting each other.

When Alexander had to pick his cabinet, Allison Drawwood was the only candidate who met his, in James' own words, 'ridiculously high requirements'.

Which brought them to their current situation. They were trying to figure out a way to change their country's finances so that they would not be crushed by the debt plan or George W. Bush's atrocious mistakes. Unfortunately, the situation had progressed too far for it to be a simple matter of reduction or increasing taxes or some other simple measure. At this point, it was a question of a complete overhaul of the American economics, but if anyone had ever been qualified to do it, it had to be the guy who wrote it into existence in the first place. Traditionally, the president did not help to create any fiscal plans, but that was because presidents were very rarely well-versed in economics to the level required for such an enterprise, and those few who were either did not dare to change anything or simply did not have the time to plan anything in the excruciating details that were necessary. Alexander Hamilton made time for this, viewing the project an utmost priority and the only possible long-term solution for their country's suffering. He did not want to merely create short-term solutions, because that meant that someone else would later have to pick up after him, so to speak, and there was really nobody more qualified for what needed to be done.

Drawwood and Hamilton had spread out heaps of papers all over the living room floor of the house belonging to Alexander's adopted parents. They had long since foregone the formal etiquette and were simply sitting on the floor. They could have technically done it in the White House, but Alexander feared being interrupted every other minute, and what they needed to do required full and constant concentration from the both of them. Attached to various papers were colour-coded post-it notes because Drawwood insisted that it would facilitate the sorting of the benefit and drawbacks of different plausible measures.

She groaned as she skimmed through an article on the laissez-faire theory. “Can we finally agree that this one is useless?” she showed the paper to him.

Alexander winced when he read it. “Yes, discard it immediately,” he said decisively. “If I never hear about that theory ever again, it will be too soon,” he then returned his attention to the notes he had been scribbling down on another theory.

Drawwood grinned as an idea came to mind. She made quick work of folding the paper into an airplane and threw it at the back of Alexander's head.

He squawked. “Hey!” he yelled indignantly. “A little respect here. What's with you and airplanes?” he asked rhetorically.

She blinked, assuming an innocent look. “What do you mean, sir?” she asked innocuously.

Alexander rolled his eyes. “Don't do that look,” he advised. “I know for a fact that you and Lafayette were responsible for throwing those airplanes at me during my first State of the Union.”

She feigned shock. “Me? I'd never, sir.” She pretended to clutch her heart.

Alexander rolled his eyes. “If you had said it a few years ago, maybe I would have believed you. Now? Forget about it.”

“To be fair, sir, at that point, you _had_ been talking non-stop for two and a half hours. _Two and a half hours,_ ” Drawwood emphasized. “That would make anyone suicidal. We were simply expressing everyone's inner thoughts. You might even think of it as public service. Besides, considering that I have been throwing them with Lafayette, wasn't it _technically_ interdepartmental cooperation? We should have been applauded for that.” She grinned. “Sir.”

“It was _physical assault_ , not interdepartmental cooperation,” Alexander retorted. “I could have you arrested for that.”

She snorted. “Yeah, sure.”

Alexander struck a point from a list he had quickly drawn up. “You know, this is precisely the reason that you were the designated survivor last year, and Gilbert accompanying Schmidt the year before that.”

Drawwood's grin widened. “Mr President, that you trust me to run your country in your stead! Why, sir, I am honoured.”

Alexander scoffed. “It's less of a question of trust and more of you being competent enough for the job.”

Drawwood raised an eyebrow. “I'm going to take that as a compliment, if it's all the same with you, sir.”

Alexander shrugged. “You _should_. I'm not in the habit of needlessly complimenting people."

They did not speak after that, re-immersing themselves in the world of numbers and figures. In a way, it was Alexander's way of relaxing. Yes, it was challenging and important and an entire nation, if not the entire world, hinged on them getting it _right_ , but there was something calming in a financial theory. It seemed complex at a first glance, but if one dug deep and truly understood it, every theory was very simple at its most basic. It was how Alexander imagined James felt when he meditated—his brain blissfully empty of stray thought and working at full capacity to solve that one particular problem, his thoughts controllable for once.

Their work was interrupted by a door opening. Considering that at least a dozen Secret Service guys were posted visibly outside the door (which kind of defeated the purpose of going to another house to work in peace, since the presence of the Secret Service gave away his location), not to mention the same number agents hiding in various places out of sight, Alexander knew that they had seen this person—therefore, it was someone who has been cleared to interact with him outside of the White House, which meant that it was someone he knew. Running that list against the people who knew where his father lived, he guessed that it was either George or Martha. Maybe both.

Alexander sighed. “Well, the parentals have arrived. I doubt that we will be able to progress any further with them here.”

Drawwood looked over her shoulder to the hall, from which came the rustling of clothes. “You are probably right,” she said, leaning back against a chair and closing her eyes.

Alexander looked in the direction of the hall just as George entered. The man's gaze shifted from the paper-strewn floor to Alexander, to Drawwood, and back to Alexander again, where they remained fixed. “Am I interrupting something?” he asked, staring at Alexander as though he was seeing him for the very first time. Alexander did not look away, determined to win this staring contest, whatever it was.

Drawwood shook her head. “No, Dr Westchester. We were just finishing up for the evening.”

George still did not look away from Alexander when he asked, “And whom do I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

Alexander tilted his head. “That's Allison—“ he was interrupted by Drawwood punching him lightly on the shoulder, and he yelped, making a show of nursing his shoulder. “What the fuck?”

“I can introduce myself just fine, thank you very much,” Drawwood snarked. She held out a hand. “Allison Drawwood, Treasury Secretary. I usually keep to the shadows of politics, so you might not have seen me in the media much.”

George finally broke eye contact with Alexander, blinking furiously, and shook Drawwood's hand. “George Was—Westchester,” he said. It did not escape Alexander's attention that he stumbled on his name. “I'm Alexander's… foster father,” he finally said.

Alexander's mind came to a stop as he realized the full impact of this.

_George Washington was back._

He couldn't stop the grin from showing on his face.

Drawwood noticed, of course. “What has made you so happy all of a sudden?” she wondered.

Alexander waved it away. “Nothing, don't worry.” He stood up and brushed off the dirt from his clothes. “Anyway, I should get back to the White House, and I believe that you had promised Lysander to watch a movie with him,” he said pointedly.

Drawwood understood. She smiled. “You're right. We will reconvene at a later time.”

Alexander and Drawwood gathered the papers from the floor into three dossiers under George's scrutinizing gaze. Afterwards, they made their excuses. Alexander offered to give her a ride back to the White House where she had left her car. She could barely contain her excitement and was all but bouncing all the way to the car, Alexander following at a more sedate pace.

She thankfully waited until they were in the car to address the elephant in the room. “So, that was George Washington?” she grinned.

Alexander smiled. “Yes, it was.”

She squealed. “I've officially met George fucking Washington!” She took a look at his indifferent face and rolled her eyes. “You should tone down your enthusiasm, sir. I don't think it's proper to show so much emotion.”

“Bite me, Drawwood.”

She grinned. “Ooh, kinky. But no, I hear that's what Madison is for.”

“Close,” Alexander admitted. “That's what _Lafayette_ is for. Among other things.”

She blinked. “You and Motier? Seriously? I mean, I know that you never hid it, but I thought you were _kidding_.”

“Nope," Alexander said casually, popping the _p_. “But back to the subject at hand. You have no idea how excited I am, Drawwood. This man has been the equivalent of a father to me in both my lifetimes,” he confessed. “On the other hand, the situation has just become much more complicated.”

“Why?” she inquired, furrowing her brows.

“Because if _he_ remembers, then there is a high probability that others do as well,” Alexander said somberly. “And there are some people that could make my life so much harder, so I would rather avoid that.”

Drawwood winced. “I see your point.”

They were silent for a while, then Drawwood spoke up. “Hey, look on the bright side of life. At least your dad is back,” she offered.

He cracked a grin. “Yeah, there is that, I suppose. Anyway, we have arrived. I present to you,” he made a sweeping gesture, “the residence of the leader of the free world.”

Drawwood cackled. “I hear that he is kind of boring.”

“I heard that he is very cute and handsome and also your boss,” Alexander smirked, stepping out of the car when it was opened for him by an agent. “Now, shoo. You have a kid to socialize with.”

Drawwood followed him out of the vehicle. “See you tomorrow.”

“It is reassuring that you trust me not to blow up the world in the meantime.”

Drawwood waved her hand dismissively. “Nah, you have a VP and Motier to reign you in, should you want to do any permanent damage to our country. Which you wouldn't, anyway, because you founded it, and I have experienced first-hand how protective you can be of it.”

“ _Goodnight_ , Drawwood.”

“Goodnight, Mr President.”

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I'm being drawn into a black hole. No, but seriously, I have a vague idea about what I want to do with this 'verse, but are there any specific scenes you want me to write?
> 
> Also, theoretically, how would you feel about Baron Von Stueben?


End file.
